


Before the Sandman Comes.

by notastranger



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Blacksand - Freeform, M/M, QUICKSAND, minor eye squick but not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:46:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notastranger/pseuds/notastranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Children fear the Boogeyman, but what does the Boogeyman fear?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Sandman Comes.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to this prompt: http://rotg-kink.dreamwidth.org/2200.html?thread=2691224 and this version of the Sandman myth:
> 
>  
> 
> E.T.A. Hoffmann (1776–1822) wrote an inverse depiction of the lovable character in a story called Der Sandmann, which showed how sinister such a character could be made. According to the protagonist's nurse, he threw sand in the eyes of children who wouldn't sleep, with the result of those eyes falling out and being collected by the Sandman, who then takes the eyes to his iron nest on the moon, and uses them to feed his children. The protagonist of the story grows to associate this nightmarish creature with the genuinely sinister figure of his father's associate Coppelius.

Pitch has lost track of time again.

He tries not to, because knowing when children are asleep is important to his work, but lately his work has not mattered as much, not when people walk through him without a second thought and his nightmares turn on him at the slightest sign of weakness. But his work is all he has, his only reason to exist, so he hides in closets and under beds and spreads what fear he can until exhaustion hits him and he retreats to his lair.

But he will not fall asleep; he will not give his nightmares the satisfaction. They swim in circles above his bed like a baby’s mobile, amorphous shapes that taunt him with false promises of rest. He stares up at them defiantly, unwilling to let his guard down, not even for a moment.

A fragment of a long buried memory rises to his consciousness without warning: the smell of flowers and flour and long, drowsy afternoons, a hand carding through his hair, the softness of a bed too small and too warm but all his.

 _Close your eyes, little one,_ a woman's voice murmurs, _Before the Sandman comes._

A rush of fear clouds Pitch's vision and the memory slithers away, only the name of his nemesis remaining in his mind. He has taken great pains to avoid the Guardian of Dreams, unsure of what the little man would do to him in his weakened state. Although even at the peak of his power, he still feared that glittering puffball. Why does Sandman evoke such primal fear in him? He was a talented fighter, but so were the other Guardians, and they never sent him skittering into the shadows.

Like summoning a ghost with whispered words, a familiar golden glow appears in the corner of the room. Pitch sits up and finds Sandman standing at the foot of his bed, expression disturbingly blank.

"Wandered into the lion's den, have we?" Pitch snarls, baring his teeth in false bravado. The shadows swarm around him agitatedly.

Sandman casually raises a hand and his dream sand snaps at the nightmares. The shapeless beasts shriek and dissolve into nothing, leaving Pitch alone and feeling painfully vulnerable. "What do you want, little man?" he asks, wincing inwardly at his trembling tone.

The dream-weaver floats closer, hovering over Pitch like a storm cloud. _You should be asleep_ , his sand symbols chastise. A tiny smile appears on his wide face.

"You know as well as I do why I don't sleep," Pitch growls lowly.

 _I can help with that._ Sandy's smile grows and he lowers himself until he is eye-level with Pitch. He places his tiny hands on Pitch's shoulders and firmly pushes the taller man back to his former supine position.

Pitch wants to protest, but it's been so long since anyone has touched him, and Sandy's hands are so warm.

The dream-weaver lowers his body onto Pitch’s chest and tenderly caresses his face. "What are you doing," Pitch demands hoarsely around the quickening pulse lodged painfully in his throat.

Sandy does not answer, merely presses his lips against Pitch's in a slow, deliberate kiss. Like a fairytale in reverse, Pitch's limbs grow weak and heavy and he can't move, can’t even raise a hand to push Sandy away. Not that he's sure he wants to, especially now that Sandy's tongue is pushing past his lips and eagerly exploring the inside of his mouth. Old, dark desires awaken within him, intertwining with his fear and setting his insides ablaze.

The kiss ends when Sandy pulls back and Pitch can only stare, his face flushed and breathing ragged.

Sandy trails his fingers over Pitch’s face, his touch feather-soft. _Do you know what I love most about you_? he asks with a gap-toothed grin.

Pitch shakes his head, forgetting how to speak.

 _Your eyes_. Sandy’s smile opens widely and all Pitch can see are cold, dead stars. It cuts through his arousal like a knife and he tries to scream but little fingers are already pushing into his eyes and plucking them right out of their sockets and the pain is so great like a sheet of white fire that burns and burns and –

Pitch sat up with a strangled cry and covered his face, warding off small hands that were no longer there. It took him a moment, but the light that filtered through his fingers reassured him that his eyes were still in his head. He lowered his hands and blinked once, twice, taking in the sight of his empty bedroom.

No, not empty. Sandy was sitting next to him on the bed, a spidery nightmare struggling in his grasp. He looked at Pitch apologetically as the corrupted sand shimmered and turned to gold before dissolving into his robes. _It was so tiny at first, it attacked your dream before I could stop it._

Pitch stared at him in confusion while his feverish dream state slowly faded, replaced with calmer, rational thoughts. Sandman is here because Pitch invited him.  Sandman visits him every time he needs to sleep, to protect him from his nightmares. Sandman is his friend, his –

Pitch looked away. No, just a friend. A good one that he didn’t deserve, but who reached out to him anyway after his defeat, who offered him a second chance.

Sandy placed a hand on Pitch’s shoulder and he unconsciously flinched, images from his dream still too fresh. “It’s fine, I’ve had enough rest,” he lied, smoothing out his robes and willing his breathing back to normal. “Thank you, Sandy. You may leave now.”

The small hand withdrew and was replaced with two arms as Sandy hugged him from behind. He felt the smaller man press against him, fine wisps of hair tickling the nape of his neck. And he felt Sandy’s fear. Fear that all his reassurances would never be enough, that Pitch would eventually reject him.

It was that fear that finally soothed Pitch’s nerves; it reminded him that Sandy was not a monster. It reminded him that he wasn’t alone. He relaxed into the hug with a soft sigh. “You were in my nightmare,” he admitted. “You plucked out my eyes.”

 _I did something else, too_. Pitch flushed in embarrassment while Sandy scooted around to sit next to him, sides touching. _But was that part of the nightmare, or part of the dream?_

“You were the one watching like a voyeur,” Pitch replied crossly, trying desperately not to give away the answer. “You tell me.”

Sandman wasn’t fooled. He smiled sweetly before standing up and placing a chaste kiss on Pitch’s cheek. It was a promise, an offer for something more when Pitch was ready. _You don’t have to say. But I hope you know I would never take your eyes. How could I tell you how foolish you’re being without you able to read my sand?_

“I’m sure you’d find a way,” Pitch murmured distractedly. He reached up to run his fingers through fine golden hair and smiled faintly when Sandy leaned into his touch.

This wasn’t so bad, he decided as Sandy settled himself in his lap and nuzzled against his shoulder, small hands working their way into his hair. No, not so bad at all. There were worse things in the world to fear.


End file.
